


A Free Man

by westyellowgroom



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25684132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westyellowgroom/pseuds/westyellowgroom
Summary: A world where criminals are turned into slaves. The thing is, crime isn’t meeting the demand anymore.It was a dark and stormy night…
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Premise

The British Empire was running out of cheap labour. The work houses were slowly closing down as those poor who could, emigrated to America or the Continent in search of a better life or just died off from rampant diseases.

The prisons however, were overflowing with murderers and other various criminals. A solution was presented and those in power put it place. At first it was a voluntary act, any non-violent criminal could finish off their prison sentence as slave labour. They would be housed, fed, clothed, and paid a nominal stipend to be given at the time of their release. If they committed a crime while working as a slave they would be sent back to prison, no mercy. Most volunteered just for the chance to escape the harsh prison conditions.

Eventually supply did not meet demand and new laws were passed. If you were arrested for any crime, on your third conviction you would be sent to a government run auction house and sold into slavery for the remainder of your lifetime. Murderers were still excluded, being deemed too violent for polite society. Prostitutes, drug dealers and petty thieves were rounded up nightly and sold quickly. Under these new laws, the slave owners only had to house, clothe, and feed their slaves. Monetary remuneration to the new slave or their family was strictly voluntary and therefore non-existent.

A century later, the prisons only contained the most violent of criminals who were hidden behind high stone walls and thick iron bars. Many did not survive long, often sent to work deep inside mines never to see the light of day again.

The original founders of the law thought that petty crime would slowly become non-existent over time. That however, did not happen. More and more of the populace were becoming slaves as paid workers were replaced by cheaper, or free, labour. At first private citizens, then corporations eventually took over the sale of slaves, a cut of each sale went into the Governmental coffers.

Those who could, acquired households full of slaves reminiscent of old Victorian days of butler down to scullery maid. Others were happy with one or two slaves to toil in and outside of their homes. Even some of the poorer homes owned a slave to cook and clean. Children born of slaves from these homes were often sold at a young age; usually by age eight never knowing what true freedom felt like.

Homelessness was still an issue but not illegal. Yet. Begging for money on the streets, however, was illegal.

These days, one had to carry identification with you to prove you were free, especially after dark. The new curfew laws were meant to discourage the widespread crime still running rampant in the British Empire. Slaves were required to do all of the errands for their owners between the hours of sunrise through sunset.

Anyone found out after curfew was subject to police intervention. No exemptions.


	2. Lost

It wasn’t a far walk, but it was long enough on this ice-cold January evening. Storm clouds were rolling in, lightning streaking across the sky followed by the ever-closer rumbles of thunder. The man cursed himself yet again for leaving his flat this morning without his wallet. He could have taken a cab home instead of having to walk from the tube station, or better yet he could have just taken a cab straight from work. The day he had was a long one, starting well before the sun came up and it was long gone as he limped his way down the poorly lit street. He was tired and sore, leaning heavily upon an aluminium cane with every other step.

Curfew started at sunset, if spotted he would be hard pressed to prove that he was a free man without his identification. Just as that thought crossed his mind, a police car turned the corner at the far end of the block, heading in his direction along with a closer flash of lighting and report of thunder. He could clearly see the entry door to his building when the police car pulled over in front of him. Blue lights flashing as the two uniformed officers order him to stop. While looking around hopeful of spotting someone who can say he belongs here, the man only notices curtains being flicked tightly closed.

“Do you know you’re out after curfew? I’ll need to see your identification.” Orders the young, white male uniformed officer with sandy brown hair, who disembarked from the driver side asks clicking on his torch. He shines the light in the mans face.

The man with the cane flinches at an overly bright flash of light and clap of thunder that seems to sound right above them, “Yes officers, I know this will sound strange but I forgot to grab my wallet when I left my flat this morning.” The man replies, pointing at the door to the building just down the street. “I can show you my credentials if you follow me…” he starts to say while taking a halting step forward.

The dark-skinned female officer interrupts holding up a hand, “Likely story. Odds are you have a secret escape route up there or something. Trying to pull a fast one on us?” she angrily accuses.

Frowning, “No, I don’t have an escape route. Honestly, I’m a Doctor, John Watson, I work at St. Bart’s in the A&E. In my haste to leave this morning I forgot my wallet, it’s on the kitchen table. I was running late for work and was lucky I had my pass card for the tube in my jacket.” Pointing once again, hopefully, down the street toward his door. “My flat is in that building three doors down, I’ll even give you the keys to get in and retrieve my wallet yourselves.” Pulling said keys out of his front trouser pocket to dangle them from his left index finger by the ring. “My room is on the third floor, two down from the stairs on the right.”

“Donovan, why don’t I…” the male officer starts to say, stepping closer to the Doctor reaching for the ring of keys.

She interrupts him as well, “No Sanders, he’s just trying to distract us so he can escape. I’ve seen it a thousand times. He probably has a Master somewhere wondering where he’s gotten off to. Just cuff him and put him in back of the car.” She orders.

The man takes a step back, holding up his free left hand, keys clinking. “I’m not a slave! I am a free man, a Doctor, I’ve had a long day and I would just like to go home.” He pleads at officer Sanders. “It’ll take you less than five minutes to prove who I am.”

Sanders looks at his partner, who just points at the man and declaring, “Get the cane away from him, don’t want to leave him with a weapon.”

“Yes ma’am.” He steps toward the Doctor and quietly apologizes while putting on the handcuffs, voice low enough that his partner can’t hear. “I’m sorry sir, she outranks me or I would gladly have gone to check for your documentation.” Taking the cane away, “Lean on me, I’ll help you to the car. They should be able to clear everything up down at the station.”

\---

At the station the man is processed into the system as ‘John Doe 6-5-1854’ as he cannot prove who he is and the man behind the receiving desk refuses to take him at his word. He tells the officer entering his information into the computer who he is time and again and that everything can be cleared up with a simple phone call to the hospital. He has the right to a call, it’s the law damn it!

Instead of a phone call, he is stripped and thoroughly searched, even in places he didn’t know could be searched and he is a Doctor. They took away his clothes and left him only with a stained, too large, threadbare orange jumpsuit that had seen better days. At least it was clean and it was warmer than remaining naked.

He is placed, barefoot, in a cement floored cell with several other people, of both sexes, dressed similarly. John noticed on his way to this cell there were other cells with people still dressed in their street clothes. Just before the officer who brought him down closes the door, John loudly demands, “What about my phone call? I’m a citizen and by rights I’m allowed a call.”

The officer shoves him further into the cell, causing John to stumble, while growling at him, “You ain’t no citizen, all you is, is just a lowly slave. You has no rights, just be quiet and hope your Master goes easy on ya.”

As the officer slams the door shut John yells out again, “I’m a free man dammit! I am Doctor John Hamish Watson, former Captain of the RAMC, three tours in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s bloody Hospital! I demand a phone call!” Slamming the open palm of his right hand at the locked door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

\---

The next morning, John and his fellow cell mates are loaded into the back of an unmarked panel truck and transported to a new location. They are unloaded, one at a time at gunpoint.

Once again, he is stripped and searched. He is put on a conveyer belt through a shower of what smells like insecticide and soap then a rinse in cold water. Dripping wet his is shoved into a cement six by six-foot cell with a bench on the far wall and a rusty drain in the floor. There is a dented metal toilet in the corner with a spigot dripping water into the bowl below. He hears a gurgle of the drain as he rights himself before hitting the back wall.

\---

The squat man with the beer gut, with black and green teeth orders him yet again, “On your knees slave!”

Standing tall, chin up, John growls back, “I am a free man I kneel to no one!” 

John hisses as he feels a sharp pain run from the left side of his neck and down across his bare back to his right hip. He quickly turns around and grabs the whip as it descends again, wrapping it around his left forearm. He gives a massive pull while throwing a punch with his right hand at the man who just lashed him with a whip.

The man crumples to the ground with a bleeding, broken nose while releasing the handle of the whip. John is now armed and quite frankly very pissed off. The door slams open as four more guards rush in alerted by the shout of the rotting toothed man. John hits one on the head with the thick knob of the whip handle and kicks another, hard, in the groin with his bare foot. Spinning he uses the whip handle as a club on another guards back then twirls and punches the last one in the neck causing the man to drop to his knees gasping for air.

As of now, the only one without an injury is the man with the beer gut but he’s staying well back from the action by the desk along the rear wall, hands up in supplication. Broken nose starts to rise only to be hit across the temple by the whip handle, knocking him unconscious. Neck guy is still gasping, trying to breathe. Leaving sore back guy and the one with a tender groin. Tender groin is starting to rise so John kicks the man in the chin, knocking him out cold.

The commotion brings in two more guards, who are more cautious after seeing their colleagues’ injuries. The guards move slowly, staying just out of reach, guiding John back toward the table behind him with beer gut guy. John feels a pinch at his neck, reaching back he feels a needle injecting him with something that is making him very groggy, extremely quickly. Just before he passes out, he feels the whip being pulled from his lax hand quickly followed by the bite of the whip again across his back and a vicious kick to his right side over his kidney.


	3. Going Once...

The man entered the room as though he owned the place, a long, dark charcoal coloured wool coat billowing in his wake, a navy-blue scarf wrapped around his pale neck. A few fellow patrons moved out of his way as he pierced them with a cold, icy blue stare walking near. His dark hair was slicked back, accentuating a regal forehead and sharp cheekbones. The impeccably tailored black suit he wore has a small bulge on one side of the jacket, the shape reminiscent of a sizeable bundle of money. After checking in he picks up the catalogue of slaves being offered this morning and his bidding number before winding his way down toward the tables in front of the raised stage. After a few minutes a shapely brunette woman sits down next to him with a smile, no one heard what he said but she rose shortly after and practically ran to the nearest restroom in tears; she never returned to the sales floor.

A collared server came by and took his order, bringing a tray holding pot of tea and a pair of clean, but well used cups back a few minutes later. The man slowly flips the pages in the catalogue while absently tapping the fingers of his left hand on the table. He pauses and frowns at a few of the photos before flipping on to the next page, stopping at a picture of a clean shaven, blond man with fierce, dark blue eyes.

The first to be auctioned off are the young, preteen girls, most are crying. They are led on stage by guards, the girls wearing nothing more than leather collars with leashes attached. A silver haired man with dark brown eyes sits down at the table as the first girl is led to a pedestal. The dark-haired man growls low at him, “What are you doing here Lestrade?”

The man, Lestrade, replies just as low, but without the growl, “Your brother insisted I come here and keep you company. He doesn’t like you being in here by yourself.” Looking at the catalogue and the numbered paddle on the table, “You here to buy someone Sherlock? Didn’t think you approved of slaves.” Voice still low.

Holding out his hand to shake hands, “I’m Scott, Scott Sigerson,” adding lower, “I’m trying to fit in, Mycroft thinks there is something foul going on… something about missing people being sold as slaves.” Tapping the picture of the blond man, “This one is too off to have been born a slave, looks like he is ex-military, wounded in action.” Pointing at the scar just visible on the man’s bare left shoulder. “I can’t tell his profession from the photo. He is glaringly different from the rest in here though. John Doe 6-5-1854.” Lifting the catalogue before dropping it back onto the scratched, stained, and pockmarked table.

Lestrade pours out two cups of tea and requests the wait slave to bring back some biscuits on his next trip by. He slides one cup toward Scott, aka Sherlock. The waiter brings back a small plate with a few assorted biscuits, Lestrade picks up the top one and quickly eats whole it as the server walks away. On the stage the young, preteen boys are being brought out naked as the day they were born, wearing the same style of collar and lead as the girls. “God, I hate these places.” He says with a resigned sigh.

“Looks like someone else does as well, most of the guards are battered.” Glancing around, “I often wonder how many of these people have just been kidnapped off the streets.” Looking closer at the boys, “The third one from the left looks like he was homeless.” The boy in question was thin and wiry, with an unkempt look about him.

Lestrade leans in closer, “Not all Masters are kindly and some of them encourage their slaves to not breed, even going so far as to castrate the men. As for food, some owners only allow their slaves to eat their leftovers, some of the places I’ve seen…”

Sherlock growls, “Are we in the middle ages? Barbaric!”

The boys are led one by one to the other side of the stage where their new Masters were paying, most leaving with their purchases. A group of young women, teen to mid-thirties, clad only with the ever-present collar and lead, are brought on stage next. Each one put up on a low platform that turned so the slowly diminishing audience could glimpse them from all angles while bidding. The handler pointing out the sights the auctioneer was describing.

Lestrade frowns, “The second one looks familiar, I think I arrested her a couple months back for prostitution.” He grabs the catalogue and flips to her picture, “Yes, that’s her, Louisa Brooks. Looks like she was caught again, too bad. The three strikes rule is unfair, they don’t even put you before a Magistrate on the last arrest; guilty even if innocent.”

Sherlock looks at her closer, “Hmm, rash. Looks like she has syphilis, she’s a good one to get off of the streets. Hopefully her new Master has her health checked out before indulging.” She’s walked off to the side, sold for £650.00 to a squat heavyset man greatly resembling a walrus in looks and bearing.

Odd noises can be heard from backstage. A guard whose charge is now in the care of a new master hastens behind the screens. The sound of flesh hitting flesh is heard around the description of the woman on the turning dais.

Three more women are sold before the next group consisting of males from teen to mid-thirties are led out. The blond man is the last in line, his guard, sporting a recently broken nose along with two black eyes, is holding the ever-present lead extremely short. Sherlock quickly glances at the other slaves before fixating on him. There is something about him Sherlock can’t quite put his finger on. The fierce look is gone, his eyes look glassy and glazed over, obviously drugged. Looks as though he hasn’t shaved in a couple of weeks from the length of the beard on his face. There are a few bruises visible along his legs and torso that look like boot marks, recently inflicted. A new bruise is forming over the blonde man’s right eye, fresh blood slowly trickling down the right side of his face.

There are hardly any buyers left when the blond man is led limping his way onto the rotating platform, hands cuffed behind him. The man looks as though he has lost quite a bit of weight recently. From their front row seats Sherlock and Lestrade both gasp in horror at the numerous bruises as well as the multiple whip marks crisscrossed on the man’s back become evident as the platform turns, along with raw marks around wrists and ankles. The bruising on his right knuckles suggest he punched someone or something quite recently.

Sherlock growls low, “I do believe we just located who battered the guards.” As he raises his paddle.

Lestrade is shocked, “What are you doing?” he breathes out low in a panic.

“Saving him obviously,” raising the paddle with the number 25-1 on it again.

“Are you insane? You can’t buy him! You’re just supposed to be here to observe.” Taking a calming breath, “Mycroft is going to kill me.” Lestrade hisses out looking at the remaining crowd.

From the stage the auctioneer, with a large beer gut and rotting teeth, calls out “Going once, going twice. Sold to 25-1 for £575.00!” The gavel falls, “That’s it for today folks, our next sale is in a week.”

“Lestrade, grab the last few biscuits and meet me at the cashier.” Rising, taking a few steps away only to hastily return, “Oh, do you have any extra clothes? I wasn’t expecting to buy anyone, I think I’m supposed to provide clothing.”

Lestrade looks a bit dumbfounded, absently he grabs the remaining biscuits in a napkin before answering. “I, um, I might have some gym clothes in the boot of my car. I’ll go check.” He hastens off, glancing over his shoulder a few times to watch as Sherlock slowly strides over to the cashier in the corner.

\---

When Lestrade next meets up with Sherlock he finds him arguing with the cashier, “I was not certain I was going to purchase anything today, I was just here browsing. I forgot to grab a collar on my way out, why can’t I just give you a bit extra for this one? How does a £150.00 in cash sound?”

Lestrade notices these bills go straight into the cashiers’ pocket. He bumps Sherlock’s hip with a small duffle bag, “Clothes.” Leaning in, “They’re clean, you can keep them as long as you need.”

The guard with the broken nose and two black eyes has a now uncuffed John by a short leash, pulling the leather limited choke collar tight enough to restrict breathing. “You choke my slave much more and I’ll give you a broken arm to go with that nose.” Sherlock snarls at him.

“Gotta keep a close eye on this one, he’s a feisty boyo.” The guard nasally explains giving his prisoner a rough shake with the collar.

Sherlock sarcastically replies, not bothering to keep his voice low, “Yes, I see he’s being rather difficult being drugged to the gills and all.” Sherlock can’t help but glare at the guard, adding. “Compensating for a small penis? Your wife left you for someone else recently... ah, another woman no less.” Before adding scathingly, “My, how humiliating.” Raising an eyebrow at the guard.

The cashier is smirking, just barely holding back his laughter.

The guard is turning a deep crimson, pulling the lead tighter causing the blond man to gasp for air.

Lestrade clears his throat, noticing the tensing of the guards’ grip on the leash.

Sherlock reaches over to unclip the leash from his new slave, “That’s enough of that.” Then taking the blonds elbow to guide him off to a side alcove.

John starts to wrench his arm away as Sherlock whispers low in his ear, “Steady, I know you are a free man. Go along with the show and I’ll get you safely out of here.” Sherlock is rewarded with a small, quick nod. He whispers again, “Good, that’s it relax, I won’t hurt you.” Sherlock pulls a clean monogramed handkerchief from his front pocket. “Here, for your head.”

Lestrade’s gym clothes are swimming on John, making him look small and frail. Thankfully the sweatpants legs have elastic at the bottom and a tie at the waist to keep them up. John hissed as the shirt was eased over the sores on his back. They don’t have shoes, but that can be remedied later. Sherlock helps guide a limping, sock footed John out to Lestrade’s car. Sherlock sits in the back with John as the man hissed in pain again as he carefully sat down. After fastening John’s as well as his own seatbelts he places the biscuits in John’s right hand. “Here, you look as though you haven’t eaten much for a few days.” Then unfastens the leather collar arounds John’s neck, throwing it onto the front passenger seat with a look of disgust.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, our driver here is Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard.” Sherlock offers.

The blonde man cracks open one dark blue eye and slurs, “John. Can we talk when the car isn’t moving?” Groaning at a bump in the road followed by a rough cough, then closing his eye again with a grimace.

“No problem, we can talk more back at my flat.” Sherlock assures.

Sherlock pulls out his phone and dials, putting the phone to his ear. From the front seat Lestrade is a bit shocked, he knows Sherlock prefers to text. Lestrade listens to the single side of the conversation. “Hi Mike,” pause, “yeah, I know. I need another favour.” Pause, “No, it’s not me this time. I, um, I ah bought someone at a slave auction who needs treatment, he’s been whipped and beaten.” A loud yell can be heard over the line. “Don’t blame me, I didn’t do it! I don’t even approve of slavery you know that!” pause, lower yell. “I was there on a case and I had to save him, you should have seen the other person bidding for him. Vile. Can you meet me at Baker Street?” A pause, looking at John leaning slightly forward and sideways, head resting against the cool window of the car, eyes closed, absently crushing the biscuits in his right hand, “He’s been drugged, not sure how much he feels at the moment but I’m sure it’s painful.” Pause. “You can leave them with Mrs. Hudson if you’re worried about a relapse.” Pause. “Along with that I’d say at least a tetanus booster, antibiotic cream, sutures and steristrips. Maybe some large bandages and gauze.” Pause. “Thanks Mike, I owe you! See in about an hour then.” Hangs up and sends a text before slipping the phone into an inner pocket of his coat.

Greg helps Sherlock get an increasingly groggy and groaning John up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. “I think he’d be more comfortable laying down on his stomach, let’s put him in my bed for now.” Sherlock suggests. 

Sherlock gently removes the sweatshirt from John as Lestrade removes the bottoms and socks, leaving John naked. Together they gently position the man on his stomach in the bed, John passes out almost instantly as his head hits the pillow. Sherlock pulls up a blanket, leaving the sores exposed and gently pats the back of John’s left thigh, “No one will hurt you, you are safe here.” Before pulling the curtains shut and closing the door shut behind him.

Sherlock fills and starts the kettle as Lestrade sits at the table and opens the folder containing John’s history the auction house had to provide by law. “Says here he was a thief, shot by the police while trying to elude capture a couple years ago.” Looking up at a frowning Sherlock, “What’s wrong?”

Pointing down the hall, “The wound in his shoulder was caused by a 50-calibre bullet. He was bent over something when it was inflicted and it was within the past year. The armed forces use that calibre, not you lot. What else does that file say about John Lestrade?”

Running a finger down the page, “He was picked up three weeks ago after curfew attempting to burgle a house in Brixton. It was his third strike. (Shaking his head.) Nothing about the military in here.” Looking up and shrugging.

“I don’t believe that. The man I saw on that stage was standing at attention, even while drugged. They must have given him a shot of something, most likely Valium shortly before he went on the stage or he’d be more aware now. His hands look like those of a surgeon, so army Doctor. I’d say recently invalided home from the wound in his shoulder, it’s only a few months old. He’s lost quite a bit of weight recently, still good muscle tone, but not by hard living so not homeless. His wound became infected I would bet.”

The street door buzzer sounds, Sherlock goes to answer it as Greg studies the file more while scowling.


	4. Found

Doctor Mike Stamford is a chubby jovial man with short chestnut brown hair and bright, light blue eyes, smiling with an open, guileless, bespectacled face. He greets Lestrade with a steady firm handshake, “So, where’s my patient then?” He asks Sherlock jovially.

The men lead the Doctor down the hall to Sherlock’s darkened bedroom. Sherlock enters first, turning on a bedside light while calling out to the man on the bed “John? There’s a Doctor here to see to your wounds. No one will hurt you here, you’re safe.”

Greg gives Sherlock a strange look that he ignores as John emits a wet cough then grunts on the bed, turning his head toward his visitors, eyes still glassy, squinting and blinking slowly in the low light.

Mike Stamford gasps, “John! Oh my god, you’ve been missing for over two weeks. What the hell happened to you?”

On either side of him, Lestrade and Sherlock turn and demand from Mike at the same time, “You know this man? Who is he?”

Stepping to the bed and frantically pulling supplies from his bag Mike answers, “This is John, John Watson. He works with me at Bart’s, he covers the morning shift in the A&E. We went to school together there and meet up for lunch at least once a week since he got back from serving in Afghanistan.”

Greg mumbles, “Army Doctor, right.” Raising his voice as he turns to leave, “I’m going in to the station to pick up a fingerprint scanner and my laptop, I want to run John’s prints against the system. Something very fishy is going on here.” Calling over his shoulder on his way down the hall, “I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

Sherlock calls after him, “Have Mycroft run his prints too, I don’t trust your system.” He hears “Right” just before the door to the flat slams shut. Turning back to Mike and John. “So, your name is John. John Watson, invalided army Doctor recently returned from Afghanistan. However, did you end up at the auction house?”

Hissing as Mike starts to clean his wounds, John slowly explains, slurring here and there, “I was late for work and forgot to grab my wallet. We were slammed, and another doctor called in sick so I volunteered to work a double shift. Two officers picked me up three doors from the building where I live after curfew. The one, Sanders, I think would have gone to verify my information but the other, Donovan, she wouldn’t hear of it.”

Sherlock snorts, “She’s an imbecile, I’ve worked with her before. Sorry, please continue.”

Coughing again, “The officer at the station who booked me wouldn’t listen to anything I said, I didn’t see his name tag and the others only referred to him as ‘Sarge.’ I told him my name and why I didn’t have any documentation. I was never allowed to call anyone, Bart’s would have backed up my claim.” Stamford nods while working. “I was stripped, searched and placed in a holding cell with several others overnight. In the morning we were shackled together and shoved into the back of a van. Once we arrived at the new location we were separated. I was stripped and searched again, deloused then thrown into a cell with only a pair of threadbare pants for modesty and warmth. Not sure about the others but I was only given a piece of bread once a day through a flap in the bottom of the cell door. Thankfully there was a spigot for water over the toilet in a corner of the cell.”

Sherlock waves his right hand at John’s back, bruised right knuckles as well as the angry red welt around his left forearm and matching red marks on his wrists and ankles. “How did the injuries incur?”

“They left me alone in the cell until yesterday… at least I think it was only yesterday. They wanted me to kneel so they could put a collar on me. I insisted on a phone call, I’m a free man, it’s my right. I know how to defend myself, I grabbed the whip after the first strike and broke the guards’ nose. I landed a few other hits before I was finally drugged and subdued. Before everything went black, I felt the whip land again. I was in misery when I woke up later, bastards left me on my back on the floor in my cell with my hands and legs cuffed and linked to that blasted collar around my neck.”

“Early this morning they pulled me out of the cell. Once again, I was stripped and deloused and put, dripping wet in a cold holding area, my handcuffs were secured to a metal post, and they gagged me. Three guards were on me backstage until they removed the gag. I head butted one while another gave me a shot of something, most likely diazepam from the effects, finally they removed the ankle cuffs and then led me onto the stage. You know the rest.”

“Lestrade recognized one of the women, we’re not positive she was on her third strike. Right now, I’m thinking not. I’ll have to check with my homeless network about one of the boys…” Sherlock starts to pace the length of the bed, “I’d like you to stay here while you recover. You’ll need help keeping,” stopping and waving at John’s back again, “that clean. If you give me your address, I can go collect some of your things if you want. Mike can stay with you while I run out?” The last addressed to Stamford.

“No problem,” Mike nods as he gives Sherlock a strange look before going back to his work cleaning John’s injuries.

John nods, winces then tells Sherlock his address and a short list of what items he’d like along with his wallet. John ends with, “I don’t know how you’ll get in though. I’m not exactly sure where my keys are at the moment.”

Sherlock waves a hand in the air, “Not a problem. Right, I’ll be back. You can stay Mike? If you have to go, I can send up Mrs. Hudson to keep watch over John.”

“I’ll be at this for a while yet, I can stay, no worries.” Dr. Stamford assures.

“Good. Good, I’ll, um, just go then.” Turning toward the door then turns around to cross to the breakfront on the far wall to open a drawer. He hands Mike red silk pants on his way out, “John might like some clothes. These are new, never worn. Make yourselves at home. Don’t open the right crisper drawer in the refrigerator. Text if you need anything, I should be back shortly.” Sherlock finally turning, leaving the room feeling empty without his presence.

Mike chuckles after Sherlock’s retreating form.

“What?” John slurs.

Mike smiles, “I’ve never seen him like that before. Sherlock usually refers to himself as a ‘high functioning sociopath.’ I think he really likes you.”

“I’m just glad he was there, I could have ended up anywhere.” John mumbles, trying not to squirm as Mike tends his wounds.

“About half way done here John then I’ll sew you back together. I’ll contact Dr. Morris at Bart’s and explain what happened to you. They should be able to give you back your job, it wasn’t your fault you didn’t show up for your shifts.”

“Ta Mike. Uh, can you help me up and into the loo? I should be alright once in there… I’d really love a hot shower before you stich me up.”

“Yeah, I can wait outside the door and wait for you to call, no problem.” Handing over the red silk pants.

\---

Greg beat Sherlock back to Baker Street. He took a sleepy John’s fingerprints and was running them through New Scotland Yard’s database via his laptop at the kitchen table, when Sherlock returned.

Sherlock was loaded down with a stuffed duffle bag, a laptop case, a large cardboard box, and a shopping bag from some posh sounding place Greg had never heard of. Sherlock brought the items into his bedroom where John had fallen asleep again. He leaves Johns’ belongings next to the foot of the bed where they’d be close but not a tripping hazard, and taking a dressing gown out of the shopping bag to drape over the end post of the bed.

Mike is sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room dozing himself. Sherlock wakes Mike gently shaking his shoulder. “Mike. I’m back, thanks for staying.”

Yawning, “No problem. Oh, I, um, didn’t have the heart to tell John… while I was cleaning his lower back, I found a tattoo, looks like his slave identification number. Looks new, it’s still red and swollen. He also had a mark as though he were microchipped too. I can bring a scanner when I stop in tomorrow to be sure.” Mike adds rising from the chair and stretching.

Sherlock looks furious as he calmly answers, “Thank you Mike, I will inform John when he wakes.” Observing the blond man sleeping in his bed.

Frowning, Mike adds, "I um, found some older marks too... it looks like John was burned in a few places. Looks almost like a cigarette... I never saw John without his shirt on before." Shaking his head, "probably nothing." Mike backs off a step at the irate look on Sherlock’s face.

“Right, I’ll, um, just go back to work. I’ll have a service drop of some pain meds and antibiotics later.” Jaw cracking yawn, “I’ll come back tomorrow after my class to check in on him again and bring a few more supplies and a new cane. John had a shower before I stitched him up, he stank of delousing agent. We changed the sheets. Um, keep his stitches dry." pointing, "I left notes on aftercare on the bedside table. If you have questions call, text, or just ask John, he’s an excellent Doctor. I’d like to x-ray his ribs, right hip and foot, make sure nothing is broken under the bruising.” Talking as he walks down the hallway.

“Thanks Mike, I’ll see if my brother can arrange something for here.” Following the man out to the kitchen and down to the front door.

Sherlock returns, then sits across the table from Lestrade. “So, what have you found?”

“I scanned John's prints. I also sent off a copy to your brother. Mycroft replied he will have his people look into John’s records. According to the NSY Database he is John Doe 6-5-1854, thief extraordinaire. He’s been arrested twice before for burglary. He was shot a couple years ago while brandishing a knife, he stabbed an officer while trying to escape and is suspected of burgling several other residences. Odd thing is, the record covers multiple years but is only a few weeks old.” Turning the laptop around, “Look for yourself.” Flipping open the file folder from the auction house again.

Sherlock’s fingers fly over the keyboard, “As I suspected, Sargent Nash is involved, he created the file. Not sure about Donovan yet… I’d like to speak with constable Sanders on his own, see if he remembers where they arrested John. His place was near Kenton.”

Greg looks up frowning, “Was?” he questions.

Glancing up then back at the screen, “Yeah, John’s landlord was pinning an eviction notice on his door when I showed up. He let me in, seemed very happy to be rid of John… I packed up everything I could find, there’s a footlocker downstairs with a brass label reading Captain John H. Watson RAMC above the lock.”

“Poor bloke, arrested, whipped, auctioned off and now homeless.” Lestrade slowly shakes his head.

Sherlock frowns at Greg, “He’s not homeless.” Waving a hand before typing again, “John can stay here as long as he wants. There’s another bedroom upstairs I don’t use if he wants it.” He absently mentions while typing away at Greg’s computer. “Look, there are over a dozen more suspicious files added just this month.” Turning the laptop back to the Inspector.

“How do you… no, never mind.” Greg enters a command, “Ah, Nash again. I’ll have to notify Internal Affairs to investigate this.” Pulling out his notebook again, “I’ll write these down, then see if we can find any other files that look suspicious.”

“Send a copy of the information to Mycroft as well.” Sherlock mentions, leaning back while folding his hands as though in prayer under his chin.

\---

“You’re still groggy along with being beaten, stiff, sore, and possibly broken try not to twist too much or you could rip your stitches. Let me help you up…” Sherlock starts to reach out a hand.

Glaring while wincing, “I’m fine!” John growls.

“You are not fine, I know. Now let me help you…” Sherlock insists.

“How can you possibly know how I feel?” John demands angrily, sitting on the side of the bed glaring daggers at Sherlock.

Standing in front of him, Sherlock looks over John’s head, “I was captured on a job for my brother in Serbia. Thankfully I managed to escape and get word out before I was caught again. I was rescued while being tortured.” Looking John in the eyes, “I do know exactly how you feel. Let. Me. Help.”

All the fight leaves John, he nods and allows Sherlock to help him rise and change into his own clean pyjama bottoms then the blue silk dressing gown Sherlock purchased earlier.

“I saw where you found a spare toothbrush, I meant to leave one out in case you wanted to use it.” Sherlock adds, pulling John’s slippers out of a box and handing them over. “I can help you shave if you want.”

“Maybe later.” Looking around the room, John spots his footlocker under the window with his duffle bag and the cardboard box Sherlock pulled his slippers from. “Did you bring everything from my bedsit?” Carefully sliding his feet into his own slippers.

Sherlock looks a bit sheepish, “Yeah, about that… your landlord was pinning an eviction notice on your door when I got there so I packed up everything, including your, ah, firearm. Lestrade helped me move the footlocker upstairs before he left. You can stay here as long as you want though, no problem.”

“I, ah, fuck. Thanks.” Frowning, “What’s todays date?”

“January 29th”

Angry again, “That slimy bastard! I have until the second of the month to pay rent. He’s been trying to get rid of me since I moved in. I keep insisting he fix the boiler and do something about the rampant mould growing everywhere.” Taking a calming breath before looking Sherlock in the eyes, “I owe you so much already. Why me?” John asks confused.

Shrugging a shoulder, “Truthfully? I’m not sure… As for owing me, don’t worry about it. The money I spent on you came from my brother. I was working undercover for him when I purchased you. Mycroft suspected there are people who have never been arrested before and others kidnapped off the street being sold into slavery without due process. He was correct apparently. Mycroft means to put an end to the three strikes law and eventually slavery, this is the first step.”

“What does your brother do?” John wonders, leaning on Sherlock’s proffered arm.

While helping John limp down the hallway toward the kitchen, “Mycroft will tell you he holds a minor position in the British government, but he is in truth the British government when he is not too busy being British Secret Service or working freelance for the CIA.” Rounding the corner into the kitchen, “Ah, Mrs. Hudson meet Doctor John Watson.”

The older, grey haired woman wearing a purple dress with a brightly flowered cardigan over, smiles. “So nice to see Sherlock with a friend. He’s told me about your troubles dear, don’t you worry about a thing. Sit and I’ll fix you a plate, you too Sherlock.” Waving them both to the kitchen table. “Just this once though, I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

“You know I don’t eat while I’m on a case…” Sherlock begins as John cautiously sits, avoiding touching the back of the chair.

Mrs. Hudson interrupts, “Your brother and that nice inspector are working, and you have other things to consider.” Glancing meaningfully at John. “Which reminds me, Dr. Stamford dropped off a couple of bottles with me for you dear.” Pulling the prescription bottles, one each containing antibiotics and a pain reliever, out of a pocket in her flowered jumper, leaving them on the table next to John before turning back to the steaming pot on the hob.

John can’t help but smile at the motherly way she’s treating Sherlock. He thanks her for the plate of what looks like chicken stew placed in front of him before asking, “So Sherlock, what is it that you do? Do you work for the government too?” before taking a bite.

Sherlock scowls at the plate of stew Mrs. Hudson placed in front of him before answering, “I’m a Consulting Detective. I’m the only one in the world, I invented the job.” At the look on Mrs. Hudson’s face, Sherlock picks up his fork and reluctantly takes a small bite.

Mrs. Hudson places a pot of tea on the table then watches them eat for a couple minutes before she makes her leave, letting both men know if they need anything, she’ll be just downstairs.

When alone, Sherlock strikes up conversation again. “I, ah, meant to tell you earlier… Mike found something on your lower back John.”

Swallowing a mouthful of stew, “What? Something besides the bruises and whip marks?”

Looking down at the table, then back into John’s eyes. “A, ah, tattoo. I looked at it while you were asleep, it’s your assumed slave name and number.” John pales, “And, you may have been microchipped as well.”

John starts to speak but Sherlock stops him with a raised hand, “If you are chipped, we can have it removed and tested. If I’m correct, and I more than likely am, they installed a modern chip. If so, it is more evidence against them.” Sherlock informs John gently. “I do know a tattoo artist who owes me a favour, so we can have the slave mark altered or covered.”

The Doctor pushes his plate of food away, half eaten, no longer hungry. “What else could go wrong?”

Sherlock snorts while pushing away his own half-eaten plate of food. “Never ask that, it only brings trouble.”

“I don’t remember being tattooed or chipped” Looking at Sherlock, “Why me? I’m nothing special…”

\---

Sherlock grabs his pyjamas and a tan dressing gown out of his wardrobe. He starts to walk out of the room, “Just give a shout if you need anything, I’ll be on the couch.”

“Stay. Please. I, I don’t feel right keeping you from your bed and, I um… I hate to admit it but I may need help getting up in the night. Probably be best if you were near…”

“Alright… I’ll, um, just go change and, ah, be right back then.”

\---

Greg returns early the following morning.

A tired looking John is at the kitchen table, straddling a chair turned the wrong way around, leaning his blue dressing gown covered chest on the chair back while slowly eating scrambled eggs and toast. Sherlock is not in sight, but noises can be heard down the hall.

Greg smiles dropping a large paper bag on an empty kitchen chair, “Ah, I see Sherlock cooked you some breakfast, good. I tracked down some of your belongings at the MET. I found a phone, socks, shoes, belt, denims, and a shirt. Someone must have made off with your keys and jacket, sorry.”

Sherlock walks in from the hallway, “Ah Lestrade. Did you find anything new?” Interrupting John before he can speak.

Greg pours a cup of tea for himself from the pot on the table while answering, “Yeah. The box I tracked down containing Dr. Watson’s personal effects had several layers to it. At the bottom was information on an escaped slave, John Doe 6-5-1854, he was owned by” Pulls out a notebook and flips a couple pages, “a Charles A Crawley. The original identification was for a six-foot two-inch, blond man with blue eyes. He was a deserter from the Army, picked up trying to re-enter the country illegally. I made copies and sent them off to Mycroft, the box is now locked in my office at the Yard with another I found.”

John frowns, “I’m not an escaped slave though… Hey, doesn’t Crawley run a bunch of newspapers and tabloids or something?”

Sherlock absently waves a hand in John’s direction, “Yeah, yeah and bunch of auction houses. Quiet now, let me think,” before starting to pace in the lounge, fore fingers tapping his lips with each step.

Greg reassures John lowly, “Don’t worry, Sherlock’s a rude son of a bitch but he’s extremely clever.”

In the doorway Sherlock announces, “We’ll have to tread lightly, Crawley is a tricky character. Mycroft has been trying to bring him down unsuccessfully for a number of years now, the man is suspected of blackmailing half of parliament.” Pacing again, “I’m glad I gave a false name and address now… odds are they’ll be looking for us in Surrey.” Addressing John from the doorway again, “Don’t go outside without your identification and be sure that Greg or I are with you for a while… I’ll see if Mycroft can arrange for a leave of absence from your work. You’ll need several weeks to heal completely anyway.”

John frowns at Sherlock concerned, “Will someone try to pick me up again?”

“Hopefully not, but until we get the mark and chip sorted…” Sherlock reassures John as Greg pats John on his right forearm. “Lestrade, go back into the office and see if you can find any more evidence for the recent abductions. I’ll text Mycroft to send an agent over to assist you.”

\---

Lestrade returns later that afternoon, coming up the stairs and through the closed but unlocked door to the flat he spots Sherlock working at the desk by the window, papers strewn all around him on the desk and a few on the floor. John is stretched out on the couch on his right side, covered by a crocheted throw Mrs. Hudson made for Sherlock last Christmas. There is a fire burning merrily in the fireplace taking the chill off of the room.

Sherlock puts a finger to his lips for Lestrade to keep his voice down. “John didn’t sleep well last night and he has a bit of a fever, try not to wake him.”

Lestrade, sitting across from Sherlock at the desk, “How do you know he had a bad night?” he asks curiously.

Sherlock glances up from the file he was looking at, then back down. “He asked me to stay with him in case he needed help during the night. As it turned out, he did. Around two he woke up screaming. Apparently, John has PTSD from his time overseas and his recent poor treatment hasn’t helped it any.”

“Alright, but why is he sleeping on the couch instead of in a bed?” Greg wonders looking at John.

Sherlock shrugs a shoulder, flipping a page, “John has been in solitary confinement for most of the last three weeks. He didn’t want to be alone and I needed room to work.”

“Okay.” Opening his briefcase and handing over a stack of files, “Mycroft sent people to change my office door and replace the windows with bullet proof glass. What’s going on, should I be worried?”


	5. The Watchman

It is dark that night, a new moon, the streetlights barely illuminating the area beneath their poles as the fog is rolling in so thickly. It’s late, almost midnight, the only movement heard is the occasional car on the distant cross streets. The dark-haired man is hidden in the shadows of the entryway with his coat collar turned up, not wanting to be spotted by his quarry. He has kept himself still and other than the occasional red glow from the tip of a burning cigarette from the darkness one would not know he was even lurking about. He’s been watching the house across the street for the past two days, this being the closest he’s dared to be. Merely observing was quickly becoming exceptionally tedious though.

He finishes his cigarette and flings the glowing butt out onto the street as a dark sedan comes driving past to stop at the door of the house he is watching. One of the occupants, a well-known figure to him, walks out and alights into the rear of the waiting car. The car leaves, taking a left at the far corner heading toward central London. Looking back at the house the man sees the glowing lights from the first-floor windows go out, there must be another occupant getting ready to either leave or retire for the night.

Either way, the man walks across the street, nearer the door. He waits in the shadow of the doorway of his earlier surveillance. After several moments he pulls an old key from his coat pocket, hoping it still works, he puts it into the lock of the door he was watching. Turning the key, the man quickly glances up and down the street before slowly opening the door and shutting it quietly behind him.

There is light coming from under a door from the ground floor flat along with the noises of the telly turned to what sounds like a late-night talk show. Slowly the man climbs the steps to the first floor, testing every step before committing his weight to it. He doesn’t want to alert anyone to his presence. At least not yet.

The door the first floor flat is unlocked, he can’t believe his luck! The room looks almost like it did the last time he was in here, well lived in with a faint hint of tobacco and an underlying chemical smell. He stops to quickly glance at a file left open on the kitchen table from the dim light left on over the hob. The photo shows a blond, blue eyed white male with a sordid past as a thief. A well-used, leather limited choke slave collar is next to the file on top of a closed laptop computer.

Going down the hallway he notices the light is on over the sink in the loo, the door is slightly ajar, pausing he determines no one is in the room. The man stops in the open doorway to the bedroom. With help from the glow of light through the glass door to the loo, he sees there is a t-shirt clad, blond man lying on his stomach in the bed, apparently asleep. The t-shirt he was wearing had ridden up and the bedsheet was barely offering any modesty to the man’s bare buttocks. The sleeping man has had a hard time of it lately from the scars and bruises visible on his muscular frame. There are two prescription bottles on the bedside table along with a half empty bottle of water. The blond man on the bed moans and shifts his position, exposing more of one muscular arse cheek.

An intense wave of hatred floods through his system, how dare this, this, person be in Sherlock’s bed! He knew Sherlock had purchased a slave, something Sherlock swore vehemently he would never, ever, do. A contact at the auction house who worked in accounting, alerted him to the transaction, recognizing the detective even with his hair slicked back. Of all the things, why did Sherlock have to purchase a bed slave though? If Sherlock had wanted sex why did the man keep refusing the advances, he himself has made?

\---

It’s taking a long time for his pain medication to kick in tonight, as such John is not sleeping very soundly. Sherlock left not too long ago, but the presence his subconscious mind perceives is not that of his new flat mate and saviour. Waking he can’t help but moan and find a more comfortable position for his abused body.

Cracking one eye partially open he spots a slender man with short dark hair dressed in what looks like a dark navy suit, who seems to be vibrating, in the doorway. Johns’ sluggish mind quickly becomes exceptionally alert when he sees the flash of a carving knife from the kitchen in one trembling fist of the strange man at the door.

The mysterious stranger raises the knife and lunges toward the bed as John forces himself to roll to the far side. John’s not sure whose curse is louder as he gains his feet and grabs the dressing gown he wore earlier off the end of the bed. Wrapping the housecoat around his left arm as protection from the knife. With a shout, John launches himself at the man who stabbed the mattress where he was just lying.

\---

Mrs. Hudson is concerned about the odd sounds coming from 221B. Sherlock asked her to keep an eye on John as his brother Mycroft called him away just before midnight to go over some of the details of the slavery ring case. Was someone attacking the poor injured Doctor? From the thuds and cursed shouts in two distinct voices, it sure sounds like it. Grabbing her phone, she sends a quick text to Sherlock before dialling the police to report a suspected break in.

On her way out of her flat to go upstairs Martha Hudson grabs a cast iron frying pan out of the dishrack by her sink.

Upon opening the unlocked door to B flat, Martha spots John, wearing only a t-shirt with his left arm wrapped in bloody blue fabric, facing off against a man with a large knife. John sees her and growls, holding the other man’s attention. The strange man has his back to her. Thinking quickly, she swings the pan as hard as she can at the strangers’ head, hearing a satisfying sound as it hits home.

John rushes forward as the man falls to the ground, he pries the knife out the now limp hand, handing it up to Mrs. Hudson. Checking for a pulse he then pulls the tie of the dressing gown from the mess around his arm to secure the assailants hands tightly behind his back.

Looking up at Mrs. Hudson, “Are you alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” John anxiously asks.

“I’m fine John. Why don’t we get you settled in the kitchen and I’ll clean up your arm while we wait for the police to arrive.” Blushing, she can’t help but notice John’s penis peaking from the bottom of his tan t-shirt when he stands up straight. “I should find you another dressing gown or pyjama bottoms before the police arrive too.” Nodding down to his crotch.

Looking down, “Shite. Sorry, so sorry. I didn’t notice in the heat of the moment…” Staggering into the kitchen. Now that the adrenaline is no longer needed, his aches and pains are coming back full force along with the side effects of the pain medication he took.

Following John into the kitchen, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before dear. Sit, I’ll just go grab something for you to wear from the bedroom.” Flipping on the lights, she notices the mess when she enters the bedroom, bedside tables overturned, and slashed sheets with what looks like hole sliced into the mattress below. No problem, they can flip it tonight or use the other bedroom upstairs or even the spare bedroom she has downstairs. She grabs what she came in for before heading back down the hall.

John is sitting in a kitchen chair with his head between his knees, hands clasped over the back of his head. When he sees her slipper clad feet in front of him, he mutters, “I should never have asked Sherlock what else could go wrong.” Sitting up and pointing into the lounge, “Do you know who he is? He kept ranting on about Sherlock being his plaything and that he wasn’t going to share him with anyone.”

“No dear, I don’t know who he is. I have seen him here before, though it has been a while... Sherlock was never happy after one of his visits, he would either follow the man or stay in screeching away on his violin.” She eased pyjama bottoms up to John’s thighs while talking. “You’ll need to stand to pull these up and I   
still need to look at that arm. Up you go.”

\---

There are several police cars and an ambulance with their lights flashing in front of a building halfway down the block when the black sedan rounds the corner onto Baker Street. Sherlock barely allowed the vehicle to come to a full stop before disembarking and running through the open door and into the building.

Sherlock bounds up the stairs, two at a time, shouting, “John! John are you alright?”

John is slumped on the couch, a bag of frozen peas over his left forearm on the sofa’s armrest. Mrs. Hudson is sitting next to him, fussing with the orange blanket draped over his shoulders. Two ignored, still steaming cups of tea sit on the coffee table in front of them. They glance at the doorway as Sherlock skids to a halt.

“I’m fine Sherlock, just a few new scrapes.” John assures as Sherlock quickly assesses the room and its occupants.

DI Lestrade, holding several evidence bags, one containing a large knife, one with blood stained blue fabric that looks suspiciously like the silk dressing gown he bought for John and the other a fry pan. There is a prone man on the floor. Two ambulance technicians are tending to the unresponsive man on the hardwood floor.

Pointing at the man prone at his feet, then John, Sherlock demands, “Ignore him attend to John!”

Greg tries to reassure Sherlock, “John is fine, just a few nicks, nothing too deep…”

Sherlock cuts him off, “Moriarty is a psychopathic criminal mastermind, and quite frankly not worth the effort. The world would be much better off without him. Concentrate your attention on John.” Sherlock orders the paramedics.

Mycroft, who had ridden over with Sherlock, arrives in a statelier fashion, and waving his ever-present umbrella from the prone man to the couch as he speaks. “My brother is correct. Ignore the man on the floor, my people will be here shortly to take him into custody. Take care of Doctor Watson.” In a tone radiating calm and of not being disobeyed, by anyone.

Half turning to the man behind him, Sherlock insists “You aren’t going to set Jim free in a couple weeks as you did the last time are you brother dear?” Before snarling, “This is the second time he has tried to kill someone close to me. He is under the erroneous impression that I am his to use as he so wishes.”

\---

Seeing as most of B flat is a crime scene, Sherlock and John take Mrs. Hudson up on her offer of the use of her spare bedroom downstairs for the night. Mycroft had offered the use of one of his spare rooms but Sherlock adamantly refused, insisting Mycroft had done enough damage for one night already. John was thankful as he was exhausted and it was all he could do to limp his way down the 17 stairs.

The two men are facing one another on the bed in the darkened bedroom, Sherlock is lying on his side, John on his stomach. It’s quiet down here, the small bedroom faces the courtyard and alley to the rear of the building. The sounds of traffic going by on Baker Street is muffled almost to the point of nonexistence. The main noise they do overhear are the breathy snores of their landlady in the next room through the old walls. The little light coming through the curtained window is further blocked by a dormant apple tree in the garden plot out the back door.

“Sherlock, I take back my wondering of what else could go wrong. Quite frankly I don’t want to know anymore. Was this Moriarty fellow a previous boyfriend of yours or something? He was rather pissed off to find me in your bed.” John wonders.

Taking a deep breath, “No, we were never involved physically… He thought we were prefect for each other though. Jim Moriarty is the world’s only consulting criminal, once at the center of a giant web of crime. It was during my time dismantling his web that I was caught and tortured. Surprised he’s still alive actually, there were reports he was beheaded in Karachi last spring.”

“I’m just glad I woke when I did.” Closing his eyes.

“I am too John, I am too.” Patting John’s right hand where it lay between them on top of the blanket.

Eyes still closed, breathing slowing. “The pain meds slowed my normal reaction time though.” Yawning, then slurring “They’re finally kicking in now thankfully…”

“Hmm, get some sleep John, odds are Mycroft increased the security around the building.”


	6. Schemes

It is now just shy of six in the morning, he has been behind his desk going through various reports since half four. He sits with his back to the wall of windows, this way whenever someone arrives, he has the advantage of the light as his features are cast in shadow. Though today there isn’t much light coming through the heavy swirling fog outside. The building is specially designed with custom windows, mirrored on the outside. No use being careful elsewhere if he leaves himself exposed to threats here. 

There is a hesitant knock at his office door. He calls “enter” to whomever is knocking without looking up from file he is currently reading. A thin woman enters, the silver tag on her black leather collar bright and shining. She’s been in his service for several years now. Originally purchased as a bed slave, she’s outlived her usefulness between the sheets, too old now with greying hair and wrinkles around her eyes. She had learned to read and write from her previous Master, a college professor, a skill that has become useful in her new position as his personal assistant. She’s discovered her new Master can be merciful if she doesn’t betray his secrets, last heard, her predecessor was working deep in a coal mine alongside murderers. 

Out the corner of his eye, he notices she is behaving off today, nervous, hesitant. Odd.

She stops beside the desk, profile to the window, eyes on the floor, submissive. “Sir, the files from the latest sales.” She hands them over, withholding one file.

He takes a quick glance at the folders she’s given him before asking, “Is there anything else Alana?”

She shuffles her feet and informs the floor, “Yes Master. Holmes purchased a slave sir.”

He sits back in his chair giving her his full attention, “The elder Holmes or the younger brother?”

She flicks her brown eyes to his pale grey before staring at the floor again then hands him the file, “The younger sir. He… he…”

“Out with it!” he demands.

“Master Crawley, he purchased one of the mock Moran’s sir.” She anxiously answers, still looking at the floor.

Crawley opens the folder she handed over with John’s forged info. “Sebastian won’t be happy they used his dossier again, especially since his friend James has been AWOL for the past two days.” He muses. 

Scowling, he observes the date on the file, “Why has it taken so long to inform me of this?” he growls, glaring at his slave.

Trembling, voice quaking, “Sir, Holmes used false information and paid for the man in cash. Cooper thought he recognized him but wanted to make sure of his suspicions were correct and had them followed to Baker Street.” she informs him.

His pale grey eyes stare at her, “Again, why did it take him two days to inform me?” he demands.

Her eyes flick to his cold orbs then back to the floor, “Mmmm… Moriarty demanded to handle the situation himself sir.” She stammers. “Cooper just sent over the file…”

Furious, he interrupts her, “That corpulent rotten toothed imbecile! What was he thinking?” he rises from his chair, Alana flinches. “Find Cooper, I want to have a discussion with him about where his loyalties truly lay.” He leans his fists upon the open file on the desktop.

Alana bows, “Sir, yes sir, right away Master Crawley sir.” Then hastens to the door. 

Before she has a chance to close the door he commands, “Alana, have your intern, the new slave Kevin find Moran. Use his chip to locate him if Moran doesn’t answer his phone. Inform Sebastian I need to see him. I have a feeling I know where his slimy friend Jim disappeared too.”

Alana stopped, trembling while awaiting further orders, she quietly closes the door after her retreat.

Still standing, Charles Crawley turns toward the window, thinning silver hair glinting in the first hint of the morning sunshine.


End file.
